


The silence we breathe has the soul of a thief

by Greykite



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Attempt to be poetic, Daemon Princes, Gen, I Tried, Melancholy, They are warp entities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: "Do the daemon princes talk through the warp-Skype?" - or one hypothetical letter on the eve of another Black Crusade.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	The silence we breathe has the soul of a thief

...how to conceive it - how to imagine it: no longer to be even a fragment of an epoch - not even a glimmer, an echo; only a memory, a shadow, a repercussion - dissolved in a multitude of blood-drops, in the myth of genetic memory, in the infinity of a sacred text - having no end, just as it has no beginning, existing outside of time, like the gods - like the fingers that hold the stylus, although there are no more fingers, no stylus - not even eyes that would look at the parchment.

To be a vessel of signs that cannot be likened to letters, just as it is insulting to call the symbols of your true Mathematics simply numbers. What is it like: to think of the distance between time and oneself; what is it like to bridge the three-dimensional gap between the playing field of the gods and the fields of mortals; to calculate the incalculable?

What is it like to weave the contours of perception in a neutral space, and then strike, make the next move of your own; to become - not even a memory, not an image, not a likeness - an integral piece; the most exalted, all-powerful of pawns? What is it like? The hand of the rule-maker only breaks the game - does not enter in it as an equal: I can neither think nor sense - only the sweetness of truth that is the ultimate referee remains in me; but all the feelings fade and crumble - even time does not keep them, as it is banished from us.

What is it like to feel music, although there is nothing more in us to feel; this music, unstoppable, which alone does not go away, is not able to go away?.. I will not ask, I will not, for each one’s own is each one’s own. The hand holding the stylus is the gold of the flame that embraces the tower and the soul; so do you think of me? Just as I think of your planet and your tower, how I think of their own realities for everyone else - for us and others who-are-not-us.

Eyes can do more than see, but we forget - we had long forgotten, and only the Word - only a hand holding a stylus, a flame burning endlessly in the final moment of mortal life, - keep the imprint, but it is lying, false, withered - like a leaf between the pages, and the comparison to the leaf is pointless also, desolate, devoid of any content because we cannot more see the trees and we do not think about them except than in abstraction: the circuit, one of the oldest schemes, you’d know.

...however, answer me only one thing, one thing that is enough: does it burn, does it burn as before, because if not, oblivion in its entirety will come for us, although in our existence time is irrelevant; oblivion will creep in and destroy the connections between the particles of the name, each of our names. We will forget ourselves completely, forget ourselves to the last remnant, to the echo that is almost lost between the stars - in the endless gulf between "that was" and "that became", in the rotting dust of everything that ever led those who-we-were-then. 

This past has no power over us, long ago - but the connection remains, making us terrifyingly-different, menacing figures of the background, manifestations of a pure idea in the midst of mortal worldly passions, while the shadow smoulders - while the roar and rhythm roll across the galaxy, and a bridge through the timelessness can be thrown - even by you.

Does it burn, kindled by the eight-pointed star, by candles of human souls?

Tell me, answer me, the piercing Eye - one that can see as can only be given to us, ones risen to divinity; for otherwise shall it liken mighty to feeble, shall be meaningless in its absurdity - ruthless in not-regret; we can not be blinded by the brightness of truths, swinging on the waves of unreality. Look and answer me - and I will answer you how the laughter of the gods sounds like when new victims are thrown into this fire.

...this must be why we keep giving our consent - when the calling reaches us, overwhelms us, dominates us: that’s why we give our blessing to the bursting of pus from the wound, smoke from the dust, blood from the coals - why we keep giving all that can be given to heirs without inheritance - so that only it be: on and on.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song "King of Nowhere" (Diary of Dreams).


End file.
